


Asking for Help

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Overcoming fears, Post Savoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 18:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15978380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: Porthos is eager to help Aramis in his recovery after Savoy. In turn, Aramis ends up helping Porthos get one step closer to his commission.





	Asking for Help

"How are you getting on w—" Porthos stopped mid sentence and slowly raised his hands above his head. He was no stranger to staring down the barrel of a gun, but it didn't usually happen when he entered his room at the garrison. Aramis' room. Aramis who was currently pointing a pistol at him.

“Umm, you want to put that down?” Porthos asked.

Aramis stared at him. He didn’t blink and Porthos didn’t move.

“That isn’t loaded, right?” Porthos asked, eyeing the pistol nervously.

Aramis narrowed his eyes. “Oh, but nobody would trust me with ammunition now, would they?” He was smirking, but his voice was low and treacherous.

“Alright,” Porthos said, tentatively lowering his hands. “What have I done now? If you didn’t like your food, take it up with Serge. No point shooting the messenger. If the shouting this morning interrupted your beauty sleep, well, it was your own damn horse causing a ruckus. And I wasn’t involved at all. So what have I done to deserve a bullet to the head?”

Aramis huffed out a humourless laugh.

“You can do whatever the hell you want,” he said and dropped the pistol onto the table next to the other ones he’d been cleaning. “I can’t even hit you from two feet away.”

He held out his hand and sure enough, it was shaking like a cat in a thunderstorm.

Porthos stepped closer and briefly squeezed Aramis’ hand before turning his attention to the weapons on the table. He held an old wheellock pistol up to the light.

“Spotless,” he observed. “Did you have to replace the pan cover?”

“Nah, made it work,” Aramis grumbled.

Porthos patted his shoulder, but for once Aramis did not lean into his touch. Porthos smiled. “You’re doing really well, you know.”

Aramis snorted. “Yes, really well at work we usually leave to particularly useless recruits.”

“That’s not true.” Porthos frowned. “Laurent took great pride in clean weapons.”

Aramis chucked a dirty rag in his general direction. “Well, I’m not Laurent, am I?” he asked as if the mere suggestion was an insult.

“No, you’re not.”

Porthos lowered his eyes. He’d never see Laurent again, his quiet smile when he watched Porthos do well at something. He’d never hear his calm words when he explained the workings of the garrison, never get that reassurance again. He’d kept busy and he had Aramis now, but Laurent’s loss still hurt.

“Sorry,” Aramis said, sounding genuinely ashamed. “That was thoughtless.”

“That’s alright,” Porthos said quickly. No point getting Aramis all upset. “You need help getting these back to the armoury?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my legs,” Aramis quipped.

Porthos came with him anyways. While Aramis was steady on his legs by now, his rare appearances in the courtyard were still a bit of a spectacle. He much preferred to stay in his room and whenever he left it, people craned their necks to get a good look at him. The recruits made no attempt to conceal their curiosity, and while the musketeers were kind and welcoming, Porthos did not feel comfortable letting Aramis go out on his own. He was getting better, but it was still a fragile peace and Porthos would not give anyone the chance to break it.

Aramis’ kept his composure while they were out, nodding to the many well-wishers and even exchanging a few words with some of his old companions. But as soon as the door had closed behind them, he dropped heavily onto a chair. He was so uncomfortable outside of the room; even the briefest of excursions wore him out.

Porthos poured him a generous measure of wine and stood behind him to rub his shoulders. They were often sore now that Aramis spent so much time sitting down. A man wasn’t built for that sort of life, much less a musketeer.

For a moment, Porthos could feel Aramis’ shoulders relax as he worked out the knots in the muscles. Then Aramis sighed.

“Sit down, Porthos. We need to talk.”

Porthos froze. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to ask you a favour.”

“Anything. What can I—“

“Just sit down. It’s nothing serious.”

“Are you al—“

“Everything is fine.”

Despite Aramis’ words, Porthos scrutinised his face and body for any sign of discomfort as he took his seat. The night hadn’t been a bad one. Those had become rare. Aramis’ dreams still woke Porthos a few times each week, but the screaming had all but stopped.

“What’s wrong?” he repeated, leaning forward in his chair.

Aramis stroked his beard thoughtfully. He’d finally let Porthos trim it and while it was nowhere near as neat as it used to be, he at least didn’t look like a wild man any more.

“I need your help with Tréville,” he said.

“Of course,” Porthos said. “I can fetch him right now, I think he’s back from the palace.”

“No, I need you to talk to him for me. He doesn’t trust me to know my own mind.”

“He does trust you.”

Aramis gave him a small smile. “I don’t blame him; it’s only natural when... But I’d like your help to convince him that I know what I’m asking in this matter.”

“Sure,” Porthos said before conscious thought had a chance to intervene. “What is the matter?” he added more cautiously.

“I want to move out of this room.”

“What? But why? It’s your room!” Porthos was flabbergasted.

“It’s his room as well.” Aramis worried his lip between his teeth, looking over to Porthos’ bed that had once been Marsac’s. “I need to leave.”

“Leave?” Porthos asked sharply.

“Not the garrison,” Aramis clarified. “Not unless Tréville makes me.”

“He would never,” Porthos said with conviction.

“He has every right. I’m not exactly a musketeer any more.”

“You are—“

“Leave it,” Aramis said, cutting him off. “I want to... get better. And it’s not working. Not here.”

“But you’re safe here.” Porthos realised how plaintive he sounded. He just couldn’t understand why Aramis would abandon their sanctuary. “You’ve improved so much in here.”

Aramis closed his eyes and shook his head. “It’s... this room. It’s driving me mad. I can feel his presence everywhere; I can see him... his bed, his… everything. I keep waiting for him to come back.” He sighed. “There’s no going back. I feel like I’m trying to fit into a life that isn’t mine any more.”

“It is yours,” Porthos insisted. “You and me, in this room. Look at how far you’ve come. You’re up and talking and doing work.”

“And now I want to move on.”

“But why rush it? You’re exhausted every time you go out there. You’re safe in here. Why ruin that?”

Aramis looked at him with that shy half smile. Porthos had never expected to call anything about Aramis shy, but now he was growing quite fond of that smile. After all the fear and pain, it was a positive emotion and yet more proof that Aramis was getting better.

"Is Lazare's room still empty?" Aramis asked quite abruptly.

"The one next to the stables?” Porthos asked back. “You don't want that. It smells of horse dung."

"I don't think I'd mind."

Porthos could not understand that at all. Apart from horses themselves, horse dung had to be about the worst thing in the world. And to live right next to it... he’d much prefer Aramis to choose any other room for them if they had to move at all.

"But... the windows,” he added. “Right at the courtyard. You'd have people walking past, poking their heads in all the time. It's better here; you like your privacy."

And Porthos liked him not having to face the others all the time. After that incident in the armoury, Leblanc and his cronies had not caused any more trouble, but he did not fancy giving them the chance.

"I think maybe I need that,” Aramis said. “To be... closer to everyone. I could watch you when you train."

Porthos didn’t return his smile. He wasn’t prone to overthinking things, but even his paltry brain could point out at least a dozen reasons why this was a bad idea.

“You agreed to help me with Tréville,” Aramis reminded him.

“Before I realised you’d...” Porthos clamped his mouth shut when he realised he’d been about to refer to Aramis’ mental state.

Aramis still knew what he’d been about to say. “That I’d try to become sane again?” he asked pointedly. “Cause I’m not going to do that shut away in this room. I need to be part of the garrison again.”

“You are!”

“An active part of the garrison. You know it makes sense.”

“If it’s such a good idea, why do you need me to convince Tréville?”

“Because he’s even more desperate to keep me safe and locked away than you are.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Porthos grumbled.

“Let’s give it a try,” Aramis said. “You’ll see, it will be good for us both.”

Porthos very much doubted that. He’d worry his head off every step of the way. But he felt awkward arguing with Aramis, a man so recently risen from his sickbed. If Aramis wanted this, he’d be there to support him and to pick up the pieces when it inevitably went wrong.

"Fine,” he said. “It will be a tight squeeze for us in that room, but if you insist..."

"It's just me moving,” Aramis said.

Porthos’ mouth dropped open. "Just you? But... why? You... you are so well... now... and..." He couldn’t even form sentences any more. This was insanity!

Aramis smiled and put a hand on Porthos’ knee. "Porthos... thank you for all you have done,” he said. “Your patience, your kindness, everything. You've given me all this. You have brought me back to life. But I can't get better with you always by my side as my nursemaid."

"Your nursemaid,” Porthos repeated.

Aramis nodded. "You know what I mean. For both of us it will be better—"

Porthos jumped up so suddenly his chair toppled and clattered to the floor.

"I thought we were friends!" he roared.

Aramis stared up at him, momentarily dumbstruck.

“Porthos...” he said eventually.

“Your nursemaid, my arse!” Porthos shouted.

“I’ll still be around,” Aramis said soothingly. “You said it’ll be easy to stick your head in my window. But your duty here—“

“Duty! Stick your duty where you want!

“You can get back to—“

“Who says I want to get back to anything?”

He stormed out of the room, throwing the door shut so violently the wine cups danced on the table.

“I thought you’d be happy,” Aramis shouted after him. “Happy to be free of me.”

 

*****

Porthos didn’t go back, not even to bring Aramis food. Serge would take care of that. It wasn’t like Aramis needed help any more. Apparently, he didn’t like nursemaids. Fine. Who was Porthos to force his company on anyone?

Friends. He’d genuinely believed that. Weeks spent in that room, weeks spent together. He didn’t have to do that, Tréville had told him time and again. But he did. He had fed and washed Aramis, had done everything for him. And somehow he’d fooled himself into believing that was enough. Of course it wasn’t. This was Aramis. Of course he didn’t need friends. And he certainly didn’t need Porthos. Laurent had always said to work hard and then he'd be alright. He’d earn respect, earn their love eventually. Well he had worked hard and... nothing.

Serge told him that Aramis was asking for him. Porthos told him to tell Aramis he was busy and left it at that. He left the garrison whenever he could to sit in some tavern or to simply walk around Paris. He had other things he could do. He didn’t need to spend his evenings twiddling his thumbs, playing nursemaid.

Porthos had told the captain he was moving back to his old room when he pleaded with him to let Aramis go through with his plan. He shared with different men now, new recruits he barely knew. His former roommates had received their commissions while he was away. He tried not to dwell on just how far he had fallen behind. The king didn’t give commissions to nursemaids.

When Aramis carried his belongings down the stairs a few days later, Porthos sought shelter in the armoury, watching him from the shadows. Aramis was still thin and pale, but he held his head high. He declined help when Bernard offered it. Porthos had to keep himself from running to his aid when Aramis stumbled the second time he went back up the stairs. Aramis wasn’t used to such exertions any more.

At least he’d have a pleasant room to go to. Despite everything, Porthos had seen to that. He’d cleaned it and aired it and removed what little remained of Lazare’s possessions. He’d made sure there was somewhere for Aramis to keep those precious books. There was even a bottle of Aramis’ favourite wine. He’d been happy the day Aramis expressed a preference for a certain vintage. It had been proof that Aramis was enjoying something again.

Porthos watched Aramis close the shutters almost immediately, shutting himself away. He hoped that Aramis was enjoying this, his new freedom. Even though they apparently weren’t friends after all, he still cared for the man.

 

*****

The next morning, Aramis was at muster. Porthos hadn’t expected to see him and found himself standing at the other end of the yard quite by accident. He spent the entire time balancing on the tips of his toes to cast furtive glances over the heads of the assembled men. Aramis was impeccably dressed,  pauldron on his shoulder once more. His beard was still too long and his hair too short, but for anyone who didn’t know, he had to seem like any other musketeer.

Tréville gave one short nod in Aramis’ direction when he first stepped into the yard, and then proceeded with muster as usual. Porthos was assigned to guard duties at the palace and turned towards the gate as soon as the captain dismissed them so he could walk there in time. He lingered just long enough to hear Tréville call Aramis into his office to help with paperwork.

The day passed without incident, giving Porthos plenty of time to mull things over. The captain hadn’t seemed surprised to see Aramis. Had he told him to be there? Had it been his condition to the move? Had it been Aramis’ wish? An active member of the garrison had to attend morning muster after all.

Porthos worried. Paperwork. There was no way Aramis would be able to help with the paperwork. Hands that trembled too much to fire a shot would be no use with a quill. And that would frustrate Aramis. Useless, not good enough. Porthos knew what that felt like and he didn’t wish it on Aramis.

He didn’t see Aramis that night. By the time he got back to the garrison, the shutters were closed again. He did hear Serge grumble about him though. It seemed Aramis had gone through their medical supplies and come up with an almighty shopping list of things they had run out of. Serge was complaining about how he didn’t have a day to spare to run after this herb or that, but Porthos recognised the fondness behind it all. They were both happy that Aramis had found something to do.

Porthos kept up his new habit of spending his evenings in the taverns. Daily games of cards did his finances the world of good. During the day, he avoided Aramis as much as possible. He suspected that Aramis did much the same. They still saw each other. They ate their meals in the same room. Their paths crossed in the yard. Encounters were unavoidable since Aramis still didn’t leave the garrison. But they never spoke. Porthos didn’t know how Aramis spent his days and told himself he didn’t much care. He was just another soldier in the regiment.

One evening, Porthos stepped into the stables in search of a broom. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He clenched his fists. Some people didn’t seem to have even the most rudimentary understanding of tidiness and order. In the dim light of the setting sun, he finally spotted the broom at the far end of the low building, where it definitely didn’t belong.

Wishing plague and cholera upon whoever had left the broom there, Porthos braced himself and walked towards it, careful to stay in the middle of the corridor between the stalls. Out of reach of kicking hooves and chomping teeth, or so he hoped.

“Porthos.”

His hand flew to his sword, then relaxed when Aramis stepped from the darkness at the back of the last stall. Porthos took a big step back. He knew that stall housed a particular demon, Aramis’ hell beast of a horse. He had no desire to become her latest victim.

“Aramis,” he replied curtly and picked up the broom. He turned on his heel when Aramis spoke again, still stroking his horse’s head over his shoulder.

“Thank you. For talking to Tréville, for the room…”

He made no reply to Porthos’ grumbled comment about his parentage, just droned on.

“I should have said it earlier, and for that I apologise. You were always there, every moment I can remember clearly, you were there. Thank you Porthos. I owe you my life.”

“Oh, shut up.” Porthos was not so easily mollified. Aramis had said his piece some days ago. They were done. He started to walk back towards the door, but Aramis took a step forward. The horse followed and suddenly Porthos found his path half blocked by that beast.

“Thank you for everything,” Aramis continued, fingers tangled in the beast’s mane. “Thank you for your kindness, your—”

“It was no kindness,” Porthos said impatiently. “You were a means to an end. I figured I could get my commission if I caught Tréville’s eye. Now stop it.”

“Oh.” Aramis seemed at a loss for words. A rather welcome change.

“There you have it. I’m not some saint and you don’t need to fake your gratitude.”

“It didn’t work,” Aramis said. “I held you back instead.”

Porthos huffed. “They’ll kick me out anyways.”

He made to leave, but suddenly another huge head appeared. Cavernous nostrils snorting into his face, gigantic teeth very clearly trying to tear his throat out. Porthos jumped back with an undignified yelp.

Immediately, Aramis stepped between him and the horse. He talked softly to it while Porthos quickly confirmed that no damage had been done to his face or throat. He hated horses.

“This is Joseph,” Aramis said, feeding the thing a quarter of an apple from his hand. He was asking to have his fingers bitten off, as far as Porthos was concerned. “Not like him at all to scare people like that. You like a snack, don’t you? That’s what you were looking for, isn’t it, my boy?”

Porthos backed off all the way to the wall, warily watching the finger-long teeth chomp on the apple while holding the broom out in front of him. Aramis stroked the horse’s face and neck, still talking softly to it.

“They are very sensitive,” Aramis said more loudly. “They get spooked easily. They know when you’re nervous and it scares them as well. They are herd animals, you know. Whenever one of them is scared, it’s usually a danger to them all.”

“Hmm.” Porthos couldn’t imagine much that would threaten an animal the size and weight of half a dozen men.

“Want to give him that?” Aramis asked and held out another piece of apple to him.

Porthos would rather fight the entire Red Guards on his own, but he could hardly admit that.

“Speak to him,” Aramis encouraged.

“Umm, hello Joseph,” Porthos said, feeling stupid. Talking to a horse. A horse that was probably about to bite his hand off.

“Hold your hand out flat, like this,” Aramis explained. Porthos barely glanced at his hand. He was way too close to the beast now to be able to take his eyes away from it.

Aramis dropped the apple into his hand and gently flattened his fingers.

“Relax,” he said. “Remember, they can feel your nerves.”

Porthos froze and tried very hard to not be nervous.

On Aramis’ command, the huge head swivelled towards his outstretched hand. Porthos tried to brace himself for the pain. To his surprise, he didn’t feel sharp teeth at all. Instead, soft lips brushed his hand. The horse deftly picked up the apple, its soft whiskers tickling Porthos’ palm. Porthos released a breath when it finally lifted its head again, leaving all his fingers intact. Aramis gently ushered the horse back into the darkness of its stall.

“Bad experience?” he asked.

Porthos chuckled, much relieved now that no horse was invading his space. “You can say that. By all nine of my toes.”

Aramis winced in sympathy. “Ouch. I’m sorry.”

Porthos shrugged. “Was a long time ago.”

“Hey girl,” Aramis called. “Come here, gorgeous. I want you to meet someone.”

Another horse appeared, Aramis’ mare by the sound of it. Aramis ran his fingers through her mane.

“This is Angelina,” he said. “She threw Leblanc today. Yes, you did, my love. The fool thinks he can win her over. But you showed him, didn’t you? I was making sure she’s fine. I’d skewer him if he’d done her any harm.”

Porthos took a very careful half-step forward. “You like her,” he observed.

Aramis thoughtfully stroked her enormous nose. “Every musketeer loves his horse. They are our lives. Save our lives more often than not.”

Porthos sighed. He was the fool here. Signing up to a cavalry regiment. More fool Tréville for letting him do it. He’d never be a musketeer, not with his fear of horses.

Porthos cleared his throat. He did want to be a musketeer. He wanted that commission more than anything else in his life.

“Aramis,” he said. “Can I ask you a favour?”

Aramis turned to face him over the nose of his horse. “You can ask.”

Porthos swallowed heavily. He had to do this, he knew that. It was embarrassing, but it wouldn’t get any less so as time went on. If his time with the musketeers went on much longer at all. Without Aramis to care for, he’d run out of excuses to skip the riding lessons for recruits. If his training was to progress, he’d be assigned missions further away, missions he couldn’t complete on foot. He knew he had to ask, but that didn’t make it any easier. He bit down sharply on his cheek. He’d wiped that man’s behind, for heaven’s sake, surely that erased all embarrassment between them.

“Can you teach me how to ride?”

Aramis tapped his horse’s neck and clicked his tongue, which she apparently understood as the signal for her to retreat. Then he smiled at Porthos, a full, broad smile.

“It would be an honour,” he said. “Sunrise tomorrow. Meet us in the yard.”

Porthos watched him saunter out of the stables. Saunter, actually saunter, looking remarkably like the Aramis of old.

 

*****

Porthos woke feeling like he hadn’t rested at all. His sleep had been haunted by stomping hooves and gnashing teeth. He groaned into his pillow when he realised his waking hours would be much the same. Nevertheless, he was in the yard as soon as the first light appeared. He watched Aramis coax an equally reluctant horse out of the stables. They’d make a fine pair, one not keen on riding, the other not keen on being ridden.

“Look, Joseph,” Aramis said. “There’s your friend Porthos.”

Porthos snorted. Aramis wouldn’t accept his friendship, but he’d make him be friends with a beast that had tried to take a bite of him. Strange logic.

So this was Joseph. Porthos eyed the horse warily. It was huge. Could probably take his head off in one bite. It did however look thoroughly uninterested in doing that. Porthos didn’t know much about horses, but if he were to guess, this one was half asleep. He also noticed that it wasn’t black. He hadn’t seen that the previous night, preoccupied with self-preservation as he had been. While its mane and tail were black, the horse itself was brown. It even had a small white spot between the eyes and one white foot. Not all demon, maybe.

Aramis had stopped in front of him, holding the horse by a rope. Porthos would have worried about him not having a firm enough grip on it, but the horse seemed unlikely to attack.

“So,” he said. “I’m supposed to ride it.”

“Him,” Aramis corrected.

“So it’s a… a stallion?” Porthos asked, somewhat alarmed. Why couldn’t he have a gentle little lady? Then he remembered that Aramis’ horse was a lady horse and she was well-known to be anything but gentle.

“He’s a gelding,” Aramis said.

Porthos grimaced. “Poor guy.”

“Most war horses are,” Aramis explained. “It makes them calmer and more sociable.”

“The calmer thing certainly worked,” Porthos observed. Joseph appeared to be napping where he stood.

“Yes, he’s a fine example of that,” Aramis agreed. “That’s the reason he’s stabled with Angelina. She’s a bit… temperamental at times. He calms her down. And by gelding horses you make sure they aren’t distracted by the ladies.”

“Should have tried that with you,” Porthos mumbled under his breath, then bit his tongue. It wasn’t like Aramis was chasing skirts any more.

Aramis huffed out a laugh. “The superior males of the species are kept intact. They need to pass on their good looks.”

Porthos chuckled, but not for long. It was difficult to ignore the looming threat.

“Better get on with riding him then,” he said.

Aramis held up his hand. “Slow down. No riding without grooming him first.”

“Right,” Porthos said. When Aramis didn’t elaborate, he added, “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Easy,” Aramis said.

Not the word Porthos would have used to describe picking up a horse’s feet and digging around in them with a curved nail, but even he had to admit that Joseph did not cause any trouble at all. At least, Porthos guessed, he was less likely to kick while he was balancing on three legs. All the while, Aramis explained things to him. How to tie a knot that was quick to release, how to get a horse to lift its foot, what a healthy foot should look like… Porthos liked that part. He liked learning new things.

He wasn’t sure about cleaning Joseph’s coat at first. He was way too close for comfort and didn’t want to hurt the animal. That was sure to cause painful retaliation. Again and again, Aramis told him to be more forceful, to not just tickle the horse. Porthos tried until he was sure he was scraping the poor thing raw, but Aramis assured him he was doing fine. Of course, it only took a moment for Joseph to completely invalidate that praise. Porthos was brushing his neck, when the horse bared his teeth. Porthos jumped back.

“No, no, that’s good,” Aramis said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “He enjoyed that, look, he’s smiling.”

“Awful lot of teeth for a smile,” Porthos grumbled.

“I think you found an itchy spot,” Aramis said. He stepped forward and rubbed the area Porthos had been brushing. “He likes a good scratch there.”

Porthos found he liked combing Joseph’s mane best. It reminded him of those times long ago when he had combed Flea’s hair. Joseph seemed to like it too. Porthos wasn’t so sure about the tail, but Aramis showed him how to stand to the side of the horse, out of reach of kicking hooves. Not that Joseph seemed all that likely to kick.

“You like to be pampered, don’t you?” Aramis scratched Joseph between the ears. “Here, give him that,” he said to Porthos, producing a carrot. Porthos bent his fingers backwards as far as they would go, but managed not to flinch when Joseph’s teeth moved in for the kill. To his great relief, it was only the carrot he ended up crunching on.

Aramis proceeded to talk him through how to check the fit of the halter and had Porthos remove it and put it onto Joseph several times. Porthos was wary at first, having his fingers so close to those sharp teeth, but the activity did not seem to bother Joseph in the least and soon he got more confident with his newly learned skills.

“You can lead him around the yard now,” Aramis said and released the knot he had used to tie Joseph to a post.

When Aramis handed him the rope, Porthos held it tight and wrapped it around his hand several times. He wasn’t going to let that horse run wild.

“Don’t do that.” Aramis’ fingers were on his in an instant.

“But I need to hold him,” Porthos protested.

“You’re not holding him. You couldn’t. If he decided to bolt, he’d just drag you behind. You’d get seriously hurt if you can’t let go.”

“Alright,” Porthos said, dropping the rope like hot coals. He’d seen men dragged behind horses. It was not something he wished to experience himself.

Aramis caught the rope. “It doesn’t mean you can’t lead him. But it’s done through trust, not force. Like this.”

He made a soft clucking noise and started to move forward with Joseph. He stopped a few feet away. Porthos had never thought of it like that, but now that he did it seemed a miracle to him that men could lead and direct big beasts like that.

Aramis didn’t make him ride that day, nor the next. They practiced cleaning Joseph until Porthos was comfortable. Then Aramis explained the saddle and bridle to him. Porthos was impressed with his patience. Never once did Aramis ridicule him for his cluelessness or his fear. He would repeat the simplest action over and over again if it was necessary for Porthos to get it right. Whenever Porthos got frustrated with his slow process in one area, Aramis would switch to something else.

Slowly, Porthos relaxed around Joseph. He still wasn’t keen on leading him back into the stables, and certainly not on having Aramis’ mare rush at him to welcome her friend, but out on their own, he was fine. He realised that Joseph would indeed do very little without a snack. He certainly liked his food. In that, they were a perfect match.

When he did finally mount Joseph, Porthos felt supremely uncomfortable. It was odd to be sitting so high up, Aramis’ head at about the same height as his thighs. He wanted to clamp his legs against the saddle for balance, terrified he’d fall off, but he also wanted to hold them as far apart as possible, for fear of spurring Joseph into some sort of neck-breaking sprint.

Aramis didn’t comment on his fears, though they must have been plain on his face. He calmly adjusted Porthos seat and his hold on the reins. He talked constantly, explaining things to him. Porthos liked that. Aramis’ voice gave him something to focus on, new information to process all the time.

When Aramis started to lead Joseph around, Porthos lost all interest in conversation. It was the strangest feeling to be going forward without actually moving his legs. He could feel Joseph’s muscles shift beneath him, which made it a whole lot stranger than sitting in a cart.

“Relax,” Aramis said. “I’ve got you.”

“You said yourself that you can’t hold him,” Porthos hissed.

“Then trust him. He doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Porthos mumbled. Aramis wasn’t in danger of breaking his bones falling off a bolting horse.

Aramis chuckled softly.

“What?” Porthos asked. He was swaying like a boat on the Seine and was looking for something to steady himself. He knew not to tug the reins, and figured it was a very bad idea to pull at the mane.

“You never hesitate to throw yourself into a fight. You go up against entire taverns full of Paris’ worst with no one but a drunk by your side, but put you on a horse and you fear every scratch.”

“It’s not a scratch I’m afraid of, it’s breaking my neck. And he’s a very good swordsman, you know.”

Aramis ignored the last part, but Porthos knew he was well aware of that fact. Aramis was spending less time in his room, and more time in the yard. Sometimes he would find an excuse in cleaning weaponry or horses, but often he would simply sit and watch them train. He was reluctant to offer advice unless asked for his opinion directly. Porthos asked often. Aramis was an experienced musketeer and what he said was always valuable. Slowly other recruits warmed to him as well.

Porthos hoped it would be enough. He could see the pinched look on Tréville’s face when he observed Aramis sitting in the shadows instead of participating in their drills. Porthos never tired of marvelling at how far Aramis had come from the shaking, emaciated bundle of a man curled up in his bed. Aramis was an active of member of the garrison once more. Porthos saw the progress he made, the small steps when his hand became steadier and his gait more assertive. But it was slow progress. It was summer already and nobody could pretend Aramis was fully fit for the duties of a musketeer.

They continued their early morning riding lessons. The yard was empty before breakfast and that benefitted both of them. Porthos figured he would never be the best rider, but as Aramis pointed out, that wasn’t necessary, as long as he was confident. And Porthos couldn’t deny that his confidence grew steadily. As mortifying as it had been at the time, he was glad to have asked Aramis for help. Simultaneously, he began to enjoy sword practice a lot more and he figured if he could improve his shooting at the same rate, he’d be a fully-fledged musketeer by the end of the year. Maybe one day Aramis could help him with that, too.

When Porthos groomed Joseph, Aramis would often do the same with Angelina. Porthos observed with interest that Aramis’ hands seemed to shake less when he was with his horse. He also got used to the constant chatter. While he and Joseph went about their business in silence, both Aramis and his mare needed to keep up some sort of conversation. It amused Porthos, particularly since he was only able to understand half of it.

One morning, while Porthos saddled his horse, Aramis did the same. He smiled at Porthos’ questioning look. 

“Thought it was time you went for a hack,” he said. “No point riding around in circles forever.”

Porthos hesitated. It was one thing to ride in circles, like Aramis said, but to actually go out and do it around the streets of Paris… He swallowed his fears. It was exactly what he needed to learn to become a musketeer. So far Aramis had been an excellent teacher. Porthos trusted his judgement, he trusted Joseph, and he trusted his own abilities.

“Alright,” he said. His voice sounded annoyingly shaky.

Aramis smiled at him again and pointed to Angelina who was excitedly dancing on the spot. “Trust me, you’re not the one who’s going to have problems here. Madame’s going to be a handful.”

She was. Aramis was barely in the saddle when she seemed to try everything in her power to get him out of it. Porthos worried at first, but soon realised that both horse and rider were enjoying themselves immensely. Aramis’ bickering found its answer in her bucking. Even Joseph followed their shenanigans with interest, but remained as placid as ever.

They didn’t go far. A short ride through the fields behind the Luxembourg Gardens and then back through the city. They trotted slowly past Saint Sulpice. Aramis took off his hat and made a small bow in the direction of the church.

“It’s strange to be outside again,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

“She certainly likes it,” Porthos said, nodding at his horse.

Aramis chuckled. “She better, now. Can’t have her getting any ideas of going off in search of a nicer fellow. But I think we sorted out our differences.”

He had barely finished when Angelina leaped into the air and Aramis struggled to keep his seat. Laughing and cursing, he regained his balance.

Porthos guffawed. “You sure about that? Don’t think she’ll let you off that easily.”

“No, maybe not,” Aramis said, suddenly solemn.

“You alright?” Porthos asked. “It wasn’t too much?”

“Of course not.”

“Thank you, Aramis,” Porthos said sincerely. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

They slowly manoeuvred their horses through the morning crowd on Rue du Vieux-Colombier. They were nearly at the gate when Aramis replied.

“Well, I couldn’t let your first real ride be with the drunk.”

Porthos raised his eyebrows. “His name is Athos.”

“Is it?” Aramis asked, innocence personified. “That’s not what stood out to me.”

He pulled ahead, smirking. Porthos was left shaking his head. One day, he’d properly introduce those two.


End file.
